Not Close Enough
by Momosportif
Summary: KisaIta death fic. Sorry! I believe all KisaIta writers make one eventually so here is mine. Just the last moments of what may have been more than partners. Thanks to Kishimoto for amazing characters who I pray I do justice. Enjoy and review [if possible]


I can see again, suddenly, see again when I thought it was over. Hn. I think it still is. I just have a few more moments. With you. It's bright. So very bright. And it's mocking me, I know. How can anything be so bright when you're leaving me? When I'm leaving you? And the sky is not the only thing. Time is laughing at me as it passes by because now I'm the one who's crawling. But the worst, or is it the best, is the scarlet on my wrist, on my entire arm, my fingers that I never realized so closely resembled my mother's, my fingers, my fingers… and the ring that bears the symbol of the very liquid speckled on it's surface. Irony. I concede though that the kanji does blood justice. They both are beautiful, smearing on this rock as I finally reach your giant shadow that's shrinking away from me slowly. Leaking from the corners of my mouth, I'm afraid to speak. I can't feel my body. Or what's left of it. They didn't cut my wrist. I did this to myself not so long ago.

"Ki… Kisame…"

* * *

I can hear again, suddenly, hear again after being deaf for the longest time. I have no idea why I'm being given back my senses. No one can live for long when they've been killing themselves their whole lives, no one, no matter how much they've ignored it, how much chakra, how many years they've managed to escape it. We all have a time I suppose, but…

"Kisame?" And I know it's you, who else could it be? Who else has such a low voice, a soft voice, one that makes me swallow when it comes from behind me like this, swallow back guilt and hopes and my throbbing, misplaced heart. And now something new. Something salty… like home; from a long time ago but always familiar. I don't think I can roll over though, Itachi. And if I did, I don't think I could see you. Clearly, anyways.

"Itachi?" Mm. That hurt.

"Partner?"

"Yes, Itachi?"

"Kisame…" and I can move again.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?" Now I know it's true. After all this time…

"I'll be fine. You?"… all these lives I've taken without remorse…

"I'm great. Great." … your voice is so quiet…

"Good. We should rest a bit before going on, hm?"… it's amazing that I can still…

"It's against my better judgment, but…"… you've always looked so damn good in red… "… if you insist." … so amazing that I can still…

"Thanks, little one."

"Hm," you lay your head down, but your little hand is still straining to find mine. "I thought I asked you to refrain from calling me that on missions."

"Sorry, Itachi-san." The little hand can reach no more but you raise your head to smile.

"What, am I no longer your little one?" Your eyes are black. "Always so formal…" you cough and my chest hurts in sympathy. "Ki…"

"Partner?" I feel you weakening as you fall into your pool of blood and your hair blooms like some deadly flower. I'm reaching for the tiny hand just inside my shadow, reaching…

"Kisa…" tasting my tears that sting my cuts,

"Itachi?" and I can't hear anymore, or breathe, or feel, or see. But I know I failed. As always. I failed to reach your little hand. We were close, but not close enough. Just barely not enough. Your little hand…

"Kisame…"

* * *

When any shinobi dies it's said they take their secrets with them. When one of leader's missing-nins dies it is our responsibility to ensure the truth of this statement and retrieve the rings to be put on new fingers. There are always new fingers. But standing in the bloody ashes, I feel a slight tinge of disappointment, not grief; we do not miss our accomplices. But these were strong shinobi, irreplaceable even. And I think the sun is finally setting. The wind sighs with me as I study the rings in my palm. They lean against each other, almost as though something magnetic, or perhaps otherworldly, kept them there. I've wasted enough time and put them in my pouch. Irreplaceable. And the way his wrist was cut… if I was any less confident in his unshakable will to survive, I'd say he did it himself. The south and crimson clink as I walk. I was not mistaken. The sun is most definitely setting. And I am not returning alone. 


End file.
